


On such a winter’s night

by Fadesintothewest



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:52:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5971035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fadesintothewest/pseuds/Fadesintothewest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of a winter's night in Middle Earth, featuring Maedhros and Fingon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On such a winter’s night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ziggy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziggy/gifts).



**On such a winter’s night**

the snow descended quietly, blanketing the earth, quieting the vibrations of sound so that all was silent. For Maedhros, the first snowfalls of winter reminded him of his youth in Aman when he could meditate and find stillness. That stillness eluded him for the most part, but the falling snow always found a way to help Maedhros find that center in himself that was quiet and peaceful: still.

The sun was set in the West, returning to that place Maedhros could never return, but the bright silver light of the moon made the night shine in only that way snow covered lands glimmer under the light of the full moon, conjuring the elven soul to the whimsy that was once wedded to all the First Born. Maedhros was not prone to whimsy. He was prone to battle fury, to darkness, to sternness, but that was also not all who he was. Maedhros yet had the courage to laugh, to sing, and to carouse with his brothers. His pride would not allow him to succumb and indeed his elven spirit would not allow darkness to overcome him, not fully, not yet. Never that and so, though Maedhros was not prone to whimsy, it managed to tickle his being here and there. This night was such a night.

Maedhros walked along a snow covered path, lined by trees whose branches, heavy with snow, hovered over the path, creating a natural archway for Maedhros to walk under. The light of the moon trickled through the branches, lighting the path here and there, making it seem that the very stars of Varda had settled on the snowy path. Maedhros walked as a winter king uncrowned through the woods, his eyes aglow with contentment, taking in the beauty around him. He traveled to the field he knew Fingon was camped in, waiting for him, anticipating a different type of delight to be had! Maedhros allowed his senses to greet the trees, their groaning reply, deep and woodsy, happy to sleepily respond to one of the First Born. Love was the elixir that allowed whimsy to claim Maedhros.

Fingon had travelled to Himring. Some of his company was now resting within the confines of the fortress, others chose to bed down in the safe forest that surrounded Himring, like Fingon, choosing the solitude and beauty of the night in winter for repose. Fingon would not tear himself away from the first snowfalls of the season, nor would many in his company. Though they would never wish a return to the Grinding Ice, something of the cold and colors of that wasteland was wedded to their elven soul, making them a unique people. Perhaps tales from a world to come would later count them as a clan unto themselves, for they were unlike the other Noldor, these Children of the Ice.

In the winters and the first gentle snowfalls, the Noldor of Fingolfin found an abridged peace with their memories of the Ice. It was healing to encounter winter as the long night of slumber and not as the death boon of the Helcaraxë. Unlike the other Noldor of Fëanor’s host, the Fingolfians took to many of the Grey and Green elves’ traditions of winter time, remembering that these traditions were in fact their own before they chose to Journey to Aman and submit to the Valar. And so winter time was a time for reflection, for celebrating the Long Night, remembering those that were left behind and those that crossed to the other side to find, what they hoped was repose in the Halls of the Dead.

Maedhros caught a glimpse of the clearing ahead, the light of the moon reflecting on the fresh snow. He did not hear Fingon but he glimpsed a bit of silver reflecting the moonlight. Maedhros smiled, but he was also melancholy, a true manifestation of elven whimsy and the love Maedhros bore for Fingon. Fingon was changed. They all were. Though many whispered and pointed and told stories of the depth of the change in Maedhros, fewer would gossip of the change in Fingon. Perhaps, because it reflected changes in themselves. More likely because Fingon had always been such a beacon of light and courage to his people, that to know the deep sadness born by their King’s eldest would move them to a Sorrow that would have to be named and catalogued in the annals of time. The Noldor had too many of these sorrows to chronicle. They did not want to add another one, one so intimate, to that history.  

Maedhros’ eyes landed on the figure stretched upon the snow. Fingon’s eyes were glossed over, the tell tale sign of the trans-like state of what Maedhros and others had referred to as the Ice sickness when Finfolfin’s host had first crossed over. The people of the Ice had a strange ability to still themselves, to use the cold to slow their hearts to near death. It was something they honed crossing the ice. They would never have survived without such skill, but they needed the cold to do it. This prayer, this meditation, was entirely relational: the elves dependent on the winter season, on the coming of the cold to find that stillness. Fingon had described it to Maedhros once, as being able to dull the boldness of sight given from life and transform it into a gossamer veil that allowed death to appear as a shadow beyond the veil. The dead did not return nor could Fingon perceive them across the veil, but it offered a sort of second sight to Fingon, to the Noldor, that allowed him to commune with Endórë and its cycle of birth and death, something entirely absent in Aman. And so Fingolfin’s people also came to be known as keepers of a death cult, a belief system that fashioned them apart from Fëanor’s host. In this way they were closer to the Avari, but the Refusers had never known the ice. Indeed, Fingolfin’s host were a clan unlike their cousins, yet they were also like their cousins in that they were deeply shaped by the lands they crossed, the lands that etched their primordial essence into the Eldar.

It took Maedhros quite some time to not be unnerved by the ability of Fingon to meditate in such a manner. He could not stomach it at first, seeing Fingon so near death, but he had grown accustomed to it. Many of Fëanáro’s host, not having such close intimacies with Fingolfin’s people, found it entirely unnatural and maybe it reminded them of their betrayal when the ships were burned. And though Maedhros did not betray Fingon in that way, Maedhros understood Fingon’s relationship to the Ice, understood how an element could wed itself intimately to an elven soul for Maedhros was wedded to fire the moment he stood aside and watched the ships burn, was wedded to fire after withstanding, surviving the relentless fires of Angband.

Maedhros allowed himself to fall to the snow cushioned earth, arranging himself next to Fingon who was lost in the infinite refractions of moonlight caught in that veil he so carefully traversed. Fingon would never allow himself to meditate out in the wilds alone, so he promised Maedhros, for it took some effort to arouse one’s self from such a state. Maedhros allowed his cheek to rest against the snow, feeling how the snow melted against his hot cheek. Maedhros was generating heat, allowing his body to call Fingon back. Fingon’s breathing grew deeper, his heart beat stronger, the blood energizing Fingon once more. Fingon’s eyes blinked, though they never lost sight of the moon that hung like a beacon upon the blanket of night. Maedhros observed as Fingon’s full lips grew pink with life. 

Fingon took in a deep breath. Carefully he allowed his face to fall towards Maedhros. A small smile took shape and it made Maedhros’ heart ache. How he wished to see Fingon’s face contort into one of those joyful smiles from their youth that would take over his face making him more beautiful than words could describe and memory could harbor. Maedhros ached, the elven whimsy that accompanied him that night allowing his love of Fingon to be painted with the bright colors of memory, yet a memory tethered to an Oath. Maedhros focused on Fingon’s eyes, bright blue and electric, cold and keen, so unlike those common to the Noldor. Those bluest eyes were dimmed, but Maedhros knew they would soon be bright. Only he could bring such color to Fingon.

Neither spoke, finding no need for words, for their connection was such that few clumsy words were needed. They shared more than words could say in their thoughts, thoughts that could convey colors, taste and the more ephemeral aspects of the whimsy that danced in the snowy glade that night. Elven mindspeak was untranslatable for it was a language—if it could be called such—that harnessed the energy of creation, the bodily buzz of desire, sharing so intimately a bond that would allow elves to seemingly stand in place for days on end and be still. But Fingon chose to be circumvent with what he shared, for he was still too near the deep ice slumber of his meditation, and for Fingon that meant communing with sorrow that he did not want to impose on Maedhros. Maedhros had enough of his own to be burdened by Fingon’s.

Maedhros sighed, breaking the silence between them and the silence that stretched across the snowy land. Reaching up with his warm hand, he allowed it to rest on Fingon’s cheek. “Your sorrow is a mistress I am jealous of,” Maedhros whispered, unwilling to let his voice echo and sully the quietness of the place.

Fingon grabbed Maedhros’ hand, kissing it. “As is your oath,” Fingon added, quickly covering Maedhros’ mouth with both their hands to keep Maedhros from offering a retort. “I am bound to my people as you are to yours,”—there, the acknowledgement in Fingon’s words of the two clans of the Noldor, the Fëanorian and the Fingolfians, two clans, two stories— “The Ice carved my oath as your father’s Will yours, and yet I love you.”

Maedhros turned his face towards the moon, allowing Fingon’s hand to drop into the snow. He would warm it later. “And yet you love me,” Maedhros agreed. “I dare not admit I deserve your love but I selfishly keep it for me nonetheless.” Maedhros smiled, a genteel whimsy coming over him, “I am audacious in my capacity to give a shit.”

Fingon laughed, his body filling with the rolling sound of his deep laughter. “Aye, that we are, you and I, heirs of the Noldor that shall not live out the twilight of our time.” There it was again, that characteristic elven whimsy at once melancholy and joyful.

“So Findaráto has said to me, told me he sees the Second Born, scions of the sun,” Maedhros grew serious, his words incomplete. Again, elven whimsy, magical, funny, and sorrowful, all dancing together to the tune of Eä wholly and only meant for the Eldar.

“Warm me,” Fingon commanded, turning to face Maedhros. Elven whimsy was also fanciful.

“Then you will have to be on top,” Maedhros declared. “You won’t do on the bottom tonight. The ground is too cold and I don’t want you to be slow and careful.” Maedhros eyes gleamed with his inner fire. His hair was like a halo of sun upon the ground. He could not feel the cold. Fingon always stoked him so.

Fingon rubbed his nose against Maedhros’ nose, very gently pulling himself over Maedhros, not breaking the connection between noses. Maedhros laughed at Fingon’s antics. “I am on top,” Fingon announced, “but do remember I am versatile.” Fingon spoke seriously, but his eyes gave away his mirth. 

Maedhros hummed, “I do know thee well and thy versatility is much appreciated. Tonight, however I wish to bottom your most gifted toppish qualities.”

“Toppish qualities?” Fingon laughed, “Is that what they are?”

Maedhros grinned, the moon caught Fingon just so. His black hair shone and his eyes glittered, though his face was caught in shadow. “I do believe that bawdier tales would not celebrate you for such qualities if they were not top notch.”

Fingon now played along with Maedhros. “Top notch you say? Only because your bottom notch is so very appealing and giving, so open to my quality.”

“Very well,” Maedhros answered, trying his hardest not to laugh, “show me that impressive quality and fill me. If you don’t mind, I’d rather like a demonstration.”

Fingon’s eyebrow shot up. “And you shall receive it.” Fingon hungrily drew Maedhros into a kiss, the latter hastily removing Fingon’s boots and pants. Fingon in turn drew Maedhros’ arms out of his thick fur jacket, allowing the jacket to keep the cold away from Maedhros bottom. It was a hasty affair.

“My trousers,” Maedhros commanded. Fingon quickly did away with the obstruction and soon the two lay naked against one another, the moon drinking in their forms. And just like that whimsy turned into desire, also an entirely elvish capacity to ride the currents of emotion so boldly and effortlessly for they were not caught up in games of ordering emotions to follow preposterous rules of behavior. It’s what made Elves so darn difficult for the Second Born to understand. They could be raging one moment, and the next looking upon the flight of a butterfly with great awe. The Second Born did not have the capacity nor the gift of time to understand that emotions were better experienced when in tune with the wide world around them. It was something the Noldor had lost, once, but no longer. 

Maedhros moaned, the sensation of Fingon filling him, moving in him, was all that he had the capacity to know in that moment. “Fuck me hard,” Maedhros commanded threw gritted teeth. Fingon responded, thrusting, using his knees to drive into the jacket beneath him to better and more fully fuck Maedhros. “Yes,” Maedhros moaned, “y-e-s,” his voice drew out, riding the waves of pleasure that Fingon created. Their voices did not ring out. The snow absorbed the brightness of their passion, stilling the vibrations in the cold and delicate netting that was snow matter.

Unlike his earlier meditative state, Fingon’s heart was pumping fast, his blood hot, the wave of desire he was riding, taking him closer and closer to a different type of sacred space, to a different veil that would be broken. “Oh Maedhros,” Fingon breathed, “How I love you!”

Maedhros hummed a response, his own body moving with Fingon as they both sensuously and rhythmically worked towards climax. “Fingon, I love you!”

Their love making though raw and hard was not quick. They were made of hardier material that did not burn out quickly and yet the intensity of their fire was bolder, wilder, burned brighter than any other. The moon lingered overhead, witnessing the beauty and glory of the Eldar. The snow fell more swiftly, but nothing could dampen the Elven fires stoked that night- on such a winter’s night!

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you like it Ziggy! I had planned so much more but crazy amount of work and ongoing sinus issues aren't letting me write as much nor participate in the fandom as I would like.


End file.
